


Price of Partiality

by savorycheeks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorycheeks/pseuds/savorycheeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal discuss Bedelia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Price of Partiality

"Three years I spent, with an ex-lover as my jailer, in a state-run hospital. I haven’t had the pleasure of your company for a quarter of that time, and I can’t say I have any plans to throw it away." Hannibal sits opposite Will, one leg crossed over the other, back straight. He is relaxed, but alert to Will’s goading.

"Hell of an investment. Got to get your money's worth." And goad Will does.

"Deflecting or not, I believe you know how I regard you, Will.” Hannibal says, not without fondness. He lowers his chin, matching his gaze with Will’s. “No, I don't intend to kill you."

"But no promises?"

"Would you trust my promises?"

Will considers this and cranes his neck as punctuation, "I suppose I'd believe that you believe as you're making them. You do have a history of changing your mind about me." 

Hannibal dips his head, guilty as charged. "I find you compelling, despite myself. That's always been true. Tell me, when exactly do you believe Jack realized that you wanted me to escape his grasp? Did he know, as he was bleeding in my pantry, that you played the hunter so well you snared yourself?"

For a moment, Will can see his breath in the air and feel the chill of Jack’s horror --disgust, shame, pity-- as Will tells him in no uncertain terms that he’d wanted to run away, and there is a stab of guilt for a vision of Jack now, as he must be, in the wake of this fruition. "I let myself be snared. We are compelled by each other despite rational notions of self-preservation." Will’s hands rest on spread knees with his back pressing into the chair only barely, his posture all challenge. 

"I fear my rationality with regard to you is desperately fragile. Distressingly so." The fondness creeps back into Hannibal’s expression, and Will suppresses the lurch of its reciprocation in his chest.

Instead he huffs out a single chuckle. "Distressing is certainly a word for it. Tell me, Hannibal, when exactly did you decide to open my skull and eat what you found inside?"

The gears turn as Hannibal remembers, Will assumes, the choked pleas as Hannibal slid needle into skin, the grind of the saw and the events that led him to that point. "After we parted ways in Baltimore, I continued my therapy with Dr. Du Maurier, as you know."

Bedelia, behind the veil but attempting to keep her worldly citizenship. "Was her therapy beneficial to you?"

"She helped me to reach certain conclusions that I had been denying until that point. Among them the fact that in order to overcome my feelings for you, I would have to resolve them." She understood, as Will understands, the precariousness of her position, the slightest breeze threatening to tip her from pedestal to dinner-plate. From that perspective, Will Graham was a hurricane. 

"Emotional eating?" Will allows smugness to crinkle the corners of his face. "I'm not a doctor, but I think that's more of a symptom than a treatment." 

"Bedelia and I share an appreciation for the unorthodox, and she knows me very well. Ultimately, her recommendation was flawed. Under normal circumstances she would have been absolutely correct."

"What made your circumstances abnormal?"

"She did not realize at the time, nor did I, truly, that resolution was never an acceptable outcome. I would not say she is entirely responsible for my decision."

"Implying she is partially responsible."

Hannibal’s eyes narrow a hair’s width. "We each bear some responsibility for the fates that befall us, for good or ill."

"Will fate pay her a visit?"

"Before long we will come calling on Dr. Du Maurier, yes."

"I don’t suppose a partial crime warrants a partial sentence? Time off for good behavior." Will’s gaze wanders, disguising his interest in the answer.

"Regardless of her trespasses, she has been cultivated too long to waste. I intend to enjoy everything she has to offer. I hope you will join me at the table."

He glances at Hannibal, pressing his luck, "She ought to join us at the table, for a single meal. She won't go to waste;” demurely averting his eyes, he gambles, “have your doctor and eat her too."

Tongue wetting his lip, fingers adjusting a button of his jacket, Hannibal ponders. "Bedelia earns her time at the cost of offered flesh; I have the pleasure of excellent company. I wonder what you get from this bargain, Will. Could it be a whiff of righteousness, bargaining for justification of your deeds?"

"Bedelia has known you, for a time. She made it her business to be in your head. Her position is one I can relate to," Will relaxes his shoulders, "and be honest, Hannibal, it's important for you that I relate to the unrelatable." 

Another smile threatens, tugs at the corners of Hannibal’s mouth as he inspects the hem of his sleeve. "It’s inconvenient, Will. But I am nothing if not adaptable."

\---

The gratitude in Bedelia’s half-lidded eyes resides, almost certainly, entirely within the confines of Will’s imagination as he lifts a neatly cut piece of her, balanced on a fork, to his lips -- a product of his psyche rationalizing and excusing the inexcusably irrational. The roast is, as its elaborate presentation promises, entirely splendid. Each succulent morsel, moist and tender, imparts on the tongue a flavor of the exotic, the highly sought, and the exorbitantly expensive. 

A tense stillness --impressive, given the sedatives-- permeates Dr Du Maurier, seated at the far end of the table, and only her unfocused pupils give her away. She stares at her own plate, contemplating the arrangement, perhaps trying to imagine which part of the leg, exactly, lay before her. Which freckles or scars, markers of time and life lived were now being served up to her, gone and used up.

But she wouldn’t be used up, today at least. 

“You should really try it, Doctor Du Maurier,” Will says, slicing another piece, sliding his knife over it to collect the sweet glaze before placing it in his mouth. He chews and swallows without looking away before continuing. “Aren’t you curious?” He gazes down at her from his place bisecting the table, she and Hannibal having been seated at places of honor on each end.

“I fear,” Bedelia replies, her normal measured cadence now drawn out by the drugs keeping her civil, “that the artistry would be lost on me,” a slow blink, a shudder of breath punctuate her point, “in my current state.”

“I’ve found your palate to be profoundly sensitive, Bedelia. With or without intoxicants. The recipe is similar to one we had enjoyed during our first days in Paris, and I remembered how you appreciated the complexity.” Hannibal, comfortable at his end of the table, is all pleasantness and cordiality, smiling minutely at each bite he takes. 

“How thoughtful.” Bedelia remains unmoved.

Will sips at his wine and addresses their guest, “Have you always been a fan of the complex?” He peers at her through his glass. The red of the wine sways, covering and uncovering her face. “Always looking for a puzzle to coil your mind around?”

“People are often--” she labors through the haze, “fascinated… by what they only begin to understand. We see a glimmer of truth and we wish to possess the full, blinding reality of it.” She lifts an unsteady hand, slowly as if maneuvering through a thick liquid, and settles it on her own glass. “When we are invited to play a game, we want to know all the rules.” The glass pauses at her lips, and Will thinks she is considering the effects of alcohol on her current blood-chemistry. She takes a considerable gulp.

Hannibal sets down his utensils. “Did you play by the rules?”

“For a time. But I found they were too often changing.”

Will plucks a fruit from the serving tray. “Maybe you just got the wrong rule book.”

“I would say I picked the wrong team. Or I was picked by the wrong team.” Bedelia nudges her plate a few millimeters away, disgust bubbling beneath her cold exterior. “It has occurred to me, many times, that not playing is the wiser decision.” She looks at the space between Will and Hannibal, addressing both or neither of them, “But we do not always have that choice, do we?”

“Can’t see much from the cheap-seats,” says Will. “You see everything from the bench, but you might get called up to hit.”

“I do appreciate complexity. I also appreciate bodily and cognitive autonomy.” She now looks pointedly at Hannibal, who is doing a terrible job of looking like anything but a cat who’s caught the canary. “But again, we don’t always get the choice.”

“Do you believe I will be influenced to grant your autonomy, Bedelia?”

“Influenced? Yes. But not by me.” She does not look at Will, nor does Hannibal, but he feels the attention like a weight on his chest all the same. She is still playing the game, and each opponent is also a chess piece.

After exchanging charged looks with Bedelia, Hannibal smiles earnestly to himself, eyes cast downward. “You spoil the surprise. You know me too well, it seems.”

“I know you well enough, Hannibal. I know how you feel about Will Graham, and I know his vindictiveness only extends so far.”

Will stills, keeping his composure on a tight leash, but Hannibal only radiates fondness at Bedelia’s accusation, true as it is. 

“I find discussing a decision with a trusted partner helps one avoid regrettable actions.” Hannibal finishes the last bit of roast on his plate, savoring it with reverent flourish. 

“You do not suffer,” Bedelia breathes, “from an over-abundance of friends.” 

“Quite right. It would be a shame to lose one.”

Bedelia stares skeptically across the table. She searches Hannibal for any sign of teasing, of any indication that he is only blinding her to the axe at her neck. For upwards of a minute, she is not sure. Having reached a conclusion, Bedelia takes knife and fork in hand, slicing a single delicate piece and raising it to her lips. “Yes, it would.” 

Her face is utterly still as she chews, swallows the offered flesh. She lowers her fork. 

Will glances between the two of them. He has finished his plate, idly nibbling at a grape as Hannibal stands to clear the table.

“Of course, once we take our leave the authorities will have no doubt regarding our survival. We will have to disappear quickly. I trust you won’t feel the need to leave the house for, perhaps, a week-or-so.” Hannibal phrases none of it as a question. 

“You’ve always been so private, Dr. Du Maurier,” says Will, folding his napkin and setting it beside his place-setting. “I doubt anyone would question your choice to avoid social engagements for a short period.”

“Not a soul. You will have drugged me, of course.” 

“Of course. It could take you quite some time to fully remember the events of this evening in any meaningful way.” Hannibal supplies helpfully. 

“By which time you two will be God-knows-where.”

Hannibal nods. As he clears Bedelia’s plate he lifts her napkin to reveal a sharp fork resting, untouched, in her lap. He picks it up, studies it, and places it onto the stack of dishes. 

“As I said, I know you well enough.” Bedelia says, steadily.

“So you do.”

Will joins Hannibal as he retreats to the kitchen, helpfully carrying empty wine glasses. 

“Thank you.” Will says, placing a glass into the sink, his hand lightly brushing Hannibal’s elbow. 

“Nothing to thank me for, Will. You were right. It would be a shame to exhaust the resource of Bedelia’s insight in a single evening.” Hannibal leans in, his knuckles sliding under Will’s chin, and kisses him with a gentle seriousness. “But you’re welcome.”

Hannibal removes his jacket and searches the cabinets briefly. He nods definitively as he pulls a short stack of glass storage containers from the shelf and arranges them on the counter. “Would you be so kind as to bring the roast in here? I’d like for Bedelia to have some leftovers for the week, since she didn’t bring her appetite tonight.”

Will closes his eyes and resists the urge to tell Hannibal that he is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous person on the planet. As Will does what he’s asked, Hannibal busies himself preparing an injection. 

Dishes done, leftovers stacked neatly into the refrigerator --complete with reheating instructions written in lovely script-- and Bedelia sitting obediently at the table, Hannibal approaches her, syringe in hand.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Bedelia. I hope, very dearly, that you will be available the next time I find myself in search someone with whom to share an appreciation of French cuisine.”

He slides the needle in, and Bedelia slides once more into unconsciousness. Will picks her up and carries her to bed, pulling off her shoe and arranging her comfortably. Hannibal follows, looking down and studying her sleeping form. 

“Regrets?” Will hazards.

Hannibal reaches to brush a lock of hair from her lovely face, gazing at it for a moment before turning the adoration, full force, back to Will. 

“None.”


End file.
